A garden of heathens

Garden of heathens, faithful disbelievers,
Nevertheless, there is healing in the investigation.
The river then runs through the rain,
Indifferent to the rest of the water falling against and around it.
In time flowers too will bloom from this land of sinners,
A year ago you said we were the holiest of them,
that the disturbance we caused ushered a pilgrimage.
I still maintain they were chance encounters,
half answered prayers that found themselves,
confused and in front of us.
I fail to see who followed us, for so few remain if any at all.
I look over my shoulder and see the distant sign,
A house, the frame of one at least.
You’re standing there too,
the frame of you at least.

Silence at a Table

When the news arrived

the table was already set.

Quiet words were exchanged

for even quieter expressions.

Maybe in the stillness and composure

you had hoped to preserve yourself

but then why does it feel like death inside?

Your skin turned to egg shell

to what little that remains.

This is the apocalypse.

Thoughts comes rushing but the words

never reach your tongue.

You feel the eyes on you

and wish you’d turn into dust.

Thank You

You finally manage to say.

These are the wrong words

but maybe they were meant for him.

Secrecy

I think these feelings for you are like a secret I haven’t even told myself. I think I fear that any admission, even to myself, would fill me with a sense of dangerous hope. It’s not too dissimilar to the way a shadow slowly creeps along the ground past noon while we’re out here playing in the sun. I shift it’s existence to something monotonous and mundane, waxing and waning with the moon. I am alarmed though that the weight of such a concealed emotion has collapsed in on itself and yet somehow, I have withstood the calamity of such an occurrence. I will not deny that during nights where all is quiet, and the throb of it makes itself more aware, I almost give myself up to this secret singularity.

But then sleep comes and I am saved.

Forgive me now for this aching that I endlessly speak of for I am lonesome even among the crowds. I suffer from a sparseness of some sort of touch. It is something I can sense and maybe even see within you which makes it all the more painful how unreachable it is. At the very least I am thankful that I have not severed any connection to you despite all that threatens to break me apart. I think this is what keeps it hidden, keeps it secret. The thought that secrecy is still a shield and shields often protect what matters most.

Water.

I’m not sure what these words are about anymore. I’ve gone through all the old pages, the ones that are wet and wrinkling at the edges. The words in them cast memories, echoes of them at the very least, texured like sand on a beach that I can brush my hand over and feel the grains which dot these slowly fading images. They lie so idle on some imaginary shoreline where the waves so diligently take away pieces of them. I wonder where all those pieces go, and how much they’ve reshaped my recollections. At the end, I fear that it will be nothing but worn out monoliths of memory that stand at the edge, slowly sinking beneath the waterline. Is there nothing but water we are left with?

I’m Cold

The ice stares back at me

As I look into my drink.

Too cold for today,

But I’m having it nonetheless,

Because it’s woken me up,

As the cold always has

with it sharpness and rudeness,

a shiver across my skin.

I look up.

There is no one here I know,

but people much warmer than me.

They must be thick skinned or something,

Or maybe it’s just me.

I look back into my drink,

The ice stares back at me.

smaller now,

shrinking,

Just like me,

Just like me.

 

Longing

I haven’t posted here in a while. Let’s see how this goes.  

I now long for days where the shadows grow longer and the worst of the weather can be shielded away by copious amounts of layers.

I’ve grown fond of the cold, maybe it’s the dire heat of the days I walk in today but I also believe in a new warmth that has awakened within me. It is a quiet and temperate heat that has begun to accompany me ever since I met you. I’ve found comfort in this warmth.

I look forward to days where the wind will be less harsh and caress us instead with a cold that is kind. Yes, I know the days will grow shorter and night will be upon us much quicker, surprising us in a way that doesn’t make any sense as every year it is the very same. I’m not sure if it’s just me but I will never get used to way the sun dips beneath the horizon sooner or later as the year goes by but the darkness will do for there is always so much light in this city and just as much radiance in you.

Gentle Giants

What soft shapes they were,
gentle giants and wistful wisps,
marching solemly across the sky.
Where are they voyaging?
They seem unpetrubed by such a question,
The sky calls them on,
The colors are deepening,
First a pale gold and then the softest pink,
A blossoming red will soon follow
And out of nowhere a darkness,
And I fear my words will run out then.
But I’ll hear you quietly sigh,
Making me realize that enough has been said.

Setting Sail

Tonight I want to write my heart away for it is heavy with words. Not in the romantic love sodden manner I often do, although I’m quite sure it’ll find it’s way to manifest in some shape or form. Tonight I write my heart away as if I’m setting sail in the dusk. I cannot see the horizon but I glance across in the direction it’s supposed to be and I am waiting for that silver of Sun so I can push away from the shore.

Beneath the floorboards of the vessel I sit in there’s countless treasures I’ve collected across the years. They are bottled and canned, a bit dusty and dented at the edges but the memories they contain are wholesome still. For how can such wonderful moments decay? My only fear is that if the bottles are to crack or the cans were to split open, would these memories rise up and get lost among the stars?

Oh, what would I do then? I suppose I will spend my entire voyage chasing them down. I will pick out the stars that shine brightest and believe that it is a memory that makes it shine so. For there is no other reason, no destination in store for me and I will leave my fate to the stars like an explorer of the past.

There I see it now, that unmistakable glow of  a new day.

I must go.

Content

And in that moment
I felt my nerves no longer fray,
this heart of mine it beat steady,
Unhurried.
There was no throb in this chest,
no exaggerated pulsing of the arteries
running down my neck.
No, there was none of that,
none of which I usually am.
There was only you next to me,
And I next to you,
paired with a feeling I don’t often have.

somewhere

I’ve always fallen for the notion
that people make places,
that there is nothing special
about here or there,
not if the ones we call our own
are there to see it,
It’s you and I that breathe the words
which define a place.
Home is not a home,
Scenery isn’t scenery,
Not until we’ve called it so.
And just like that,
I think “somewhere” would essentially be
Nowhere,
Not unless we had seen it,
Not unless it’s name had passed through our lips.